


Manual Labour

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 08:39:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8526319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Kylo has to watch.





	

His hands are bound in silk, his palms together. The strands chase up his arms, but it’s not that which keeps him in place. 

Oh no. It’s her. It’s always been her. 

He’s clothed, his mask heavy on his face. The bonds on his arms stark red like bloody wounds. He feels every seam and stitch, but as if from far, far away. His tongue swells almost to gag him, and he hears the metallic rasp of his exhalations.

Phasma is not dressed. Or masked. She’s nestled in a fluffy cloud of pillows, naked and watching him. Two fingers draw idle paths over bone and bump, over her collarbones, thumb chasing her hourglass curves. She lets him feel her slightly goosefleshed skin by proxy, tracking the changes of her body. 

Gradually, her legs part, displaying her sex at the apex: an enticing, addictive temple for him to idolise. 

…from afar. 

She touches her breasts, first, then runs her knuckles from knee to the crease of her groin. Up and down, her spread widening invitingly. 

Her hand cups her thatch, curls around her whole outer sex, and then he sees her finger bones flex to knead herself. The bend of a wrist as she pushes against her pubic bone, the pinch of her outer lips together. He imagines them pink and lightly damp gliding against one another. The finger that bends in to tease just in the dip has him salivating with lust. 

Phasma uses that one finger, rocking against it, and he can smell her from here. She dips two fingers between her labia, parting them to give him a flash of rosy pink under all the pale. Like this, he can watch her draw from her perineum across her slit, pushing inside to gather juices and drench her further. He wants his hand, his tongue, his cock there. He can’t. 

In, and she scissors wide and he wants her. He wants her so badly. Watching her digits swallowed by her greedy hole, and then wondering how deep she can get them in. The sounds of a solo union, the way her leg shakes. 

Out come the fingers, and then comes the toy shaped blasphemously like a saber hilt. With it turned off, she draws it between her legs, grinding down at times, then pressing hard. It’s firmer than his cock could be, but it’s also not the same as the real thing. Jealously, he wonders if the thump of blood is good enough to off-set the toy’s never-fading stamina.

It turns on, and Phasma throws her head back at the vibrations. She slides it between her thighs, teasing it length-ways against her, rocking and pushing as if it’s the real thing. Oh, he wants to be there. Even just to hold the damn vibrator, and pleasure her himself. He watches as she turns it up, nudges it against her clit until she can’t take any more, then slices herself with it, spears her hole and starts to fuck herself in earnest.

Her hole welcomes it easily; that cavernous darkness he loves so much. She’s slick with her own want, and the sounds of it moving inside her - vibrating, swishing - he’s so hard, so very hard at the thought. The way her walls will tighten, clamp down around it. The way it can nudge deep into her, threaten to open the end of her inside. He wants that so badly, but he can’t have it. He has to watch her find her release like this - like he’s not even in the room - and their eyes meet as her first orgasm wracks through her. She turns the toy momentarily down, but leaves it buzzing inside of her.

Hands that wander, easing over her flanks, and she waits for her body to be ready for the next wave. 


End file.
